Make Me Sin Read online

  He pays in cash, I note, wondering if he has the same bias against credit cards that he does against phones and computers.

  Trina says, “You’re probably looking at four or five days before they deliver. International orders take a bit longer.”

  A.J. nods. “Not a problem. I was expecting that. As long as it’s there by the twenty-fifth.” He catches sight of me coming out of the back with Jamie. His face betrays nothing, but I imagine he’s holding his breath.

  For the first time since I met him, I feel pity for this hostile, exasperating man. He watches me in tense silence, waiting for Quasimodo and Frankenstein’s monster to crawl from my mouth and hurl feces at him.

  I’m so depressed by this thought, I want to turn right around and hide in the back again.

  “All done! Thank you for your order!” chirps Trina brightly, dismissing A.J.

  He doesn’t budge. His gaze on me is so burning I feel like I might combust. He shocks me with what next comes out of his mouth. “Can I have a word?” He jerks his head toward the side of the store with no customers milling around.

  I freeze.

  Jamie leans down to kiss my cheek. “See you at seven, bug.” Softer, only for me, he adds, “I want every single detail.” He straightens, nods at Trina, smiles at A.J., who gives a friendly chin jerk in return, and strides away, leaving me stranded with a fluttering heartbeat and a pair of clammy, shaking hands.

  What on earth could he possibly have to say? How am I going to answer without speaking and making him want to puke on my shoes?

  A.J. turns and walks away. I now have to decide whether to follow, or retreat like a coward into the back room. I take a fortifying breath, give myself a quick pep talk, and follow him. My pulse pounds in my temples with a sound like the crashing of waves.

  We stop next to the walk-in display cooler, where he growled like an animal at me the first time we met. Now understanding the reason, I’m mortified. My face flames red.

  We stand there in silence until I’m so uncomfortable I’m practically vibrating with misery. While A.J. studies me as if I’m an insect under a microscope, I stare glumly at a pink and white rose bouquet I made this morning. Finally he says, “You told Nico and Kat we agreed to a truce. Why?”

  His tone isn’t hostile or accusing, only inquisitive. It takes me by surprise. I blink up at him, unused to hearing anything but contempt.

  “I . . . uh . . .” Is he wincing? Is my voice making him sick? I lower my voice to a whisper, and lower my gaze to my feet. “So they wouldn’t worry.”

  He waits for more, so I’m obliged to provide it. “I told you. They have too many other things to worry about. The last thing they need is to be playing referees for us.”

  He absorbs that for a moment, while I continue to stare at my feet as if the meaning of life can be found in my Pradas.

  He prompts, “Right. You said I was being selfish.”

  I mutter something unintelligible. The next thing I know, a big hand is lifting my chin so I can no longer stare at the floor. I forget how to breathe.

  “Why are you mumbling?” he demands.

  He doesn’t remove his hand from beneath my chin. The heat in my cheeks spreads to my ears and down my neck. I swallow, desperate to flee, and close my eyes.

  “Hey. Goldilocks. You still with me?”

  Humiliated, I open my eyes and look at him. “You don’t have to be nice to me. I get it. I know why you don’t like me.”

  His reaction is so strange. His eyes widen, his nostrils flare, and his lips part, exactly as if I’ve surprised him. And now I’m even more miserable, knowing that I guessed right.

  With as much dignity as I can muster, I remove my chin from his hand, and cover my mouth. “Let’s just . . . I promise I won’t talk to you anymore. I don’t want to make it worse. It’s really frickin’ embarrassing, but I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

  As I watch, his expression morphs from surprised to confused. “You can’t help what?”

  I want to groan. Is he enjoying torturing me? This is awful. “I know about your . . .” I make a futile hand gesture. “Thing.”

  With that one word, a wall of ice slams down between us. He leans closer to me, big and male and threatening. He growls, “And what fucking thing would that be?”

  Maybe I should be scared. Or maybe I should be insulted. What I actually feel is scalding anger mixed with sweet relief, because now we can go back to hating each other and I don’t have to be so confused.

  I pull myself to my full height, look him in the eye, and snap, “Your color hearing thing. I know about it. And I hope every single word I’m saying right now is making you want to barf up your breakfast, you bad-tempered, arrogant, antisocial bully!”

  Silence swallows the shop. Even the noise of the compressor on the cooler seems to cringe in the wake of my outburst. I stare at A.J., breathing hard, trying to stab him with my eyes.

  Understanding dawns over his face. Oddly, this makes his scathing hostility disappear in a poof as if it were never there in the first place. “You think my chromesthesia is the reason I don’t like you.”

  It’s a statement, not a question. Humor underscores it. My anger falters, then fizzles, leaving me feeling even more wretched than before.

  Clearly, I was wrong about my voice being the source of his dislike. It seems almost naïve of me now, to expect such a simple, innocent explanation.

  But no. A.J.’s hatred of me is far more personal than the mere sound of my voice. I’m back to square one.

  And now he’s grinning. Grinning.

  “You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you, Princess?”

  I refuse to answer him. I won’t give him the satisfaction. I can’t let him bait me. Like Jamie said, I have to show some class, and let it go. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to get my feet to agree with my brain’s command to turn around and walk away. We stare at each other in silence.

  He moves closer to me, his gaze never leaving mine. His voice drops so low it’s almost intimate. “You want to know what I see when you open your mouth?”

  He smells like something I’d like to eat. Something warm and sugary, like a fresh-baked cookie. My mouth waters, but I’m far too stunned by what’s happening to examine my physical reaction to him. My heartbeat skyrockets.

  He leans closer. He inhales, as if he’s scenting me, too. He puts his lips right next to my ear, so close I feel his warm breath feather down my neck. It makes me shiver.

  “Ask me what I see, Chloe.”

  It’s the first time he’s ever spoken my name. Electricity runs through my body, setting every nerve on fire. My nipples harden. My breath falters. Even if I wanted to, I can’t speak.

  He slowly turns his face, skimming the tip of his nose across the skin of my jaw. When we’re eye to eye and nose to nose, he whispers, “Ask me.”

  The shop disappears. We’re suspended in empty space, alone in an endless sea of black. All I see are his eyes, gold and gorgeous and haunting.

  “W-what do you see?”

  In near silence, with barely a breath, A.J. murmurs, “Ghosts.”

  All the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My arms pimple with gooseflesh.

  He turns and leaves me standing there, gaping after him like a fool.

  “We’re ready for dessert, Nina.”

  My mother’s voice jerks me back into the present. I’m sitting at her elegant dining room table with Eric sighing contentedly beside me, holding my hand under the tablecloth. My father sits to my right. Jamie is seated across from me, watching me in bemusement over the rim of his china coffee cup.

  In the past four hours, I’ve done nothing but obsess over A.J. Edwards and his cryptic final words. I haven’t been able to come up with a single hypothesis that makes sense of them, or of his even more strange behavior toward me. I can’t wait to get Jamie alone and grill him on whatever else he knows about A.J. Especially any details about the woman in Russia who he sent flowers to today.
r />   Unfortunately, because my parent’s cook, Nina, is about four hundred years old, bless her, this dinner is moving at a snail’s pace. We might still be sitting here at the turn of the next century.

  “That was awesome, Mrs. Carmichael. I love your cooking.”

  My mother accepts Eric’s compliment with a gracious smile, as if she actually had anything to do with preparing the dinner. “Thank you, Eric. It’s so nice to see a man enjoy a meal.”

  This is a not-so-subtle dig at my father, who usually takes one sniff at Nina’s bizarre Thai-Peruvian-Japanese concoctions and heads to the fridge to rummage for anything resembling real food. Eric, on the other hand, will eat anything that moves. If we were ever involved in a plane crash and became stranded on a desert island, he’d be the last one to survive, happily devouring every beetle, worm, and flying insect in sight, without a bit of squeamishness. I’m convinced he doesn’t own taste buds.

  On the positive side, most of what Nina makes doesn’t include meat, which is a plus for me.

  My mother turns her attention to Jamie. “James, any new special lady friends we should know about?”

  My brother smiles serenely. “Not in particular. Though if you’d like to know about any new special male friends I’ve recently made, that’s quite another topic altogether.”

  My mother pales. My father changes the subject so fast my head spins.

  “Chloe, we’ve talked about your brother’s new case, my new case, and your mother’s new art acquisitions, and you haven’t yet said one word about yourself.”

  I’m pleased my father is showing an interest in my work. This isn’t typically the situation. “Now that you mention it, I do have some important news to share.”

  “Oh? And what’s that?” I don’t miss the look that passes between my parents. They lean forward eagerly. I’m touched by their attentiveness.

  “Fleuret is going to be featured in People magazine!” Feeling proud of myself, waiting for their follow-up questions, I take a swig of the silky Bordeaux my mother’s served with dinner.

  My mother blinks. “People magazine,” she repeats slowly, as if she’s never heard of it. “Is that the one that does all the stories about Kim Kalashian?”

  My brother comes to my rescue, his voice dry as bone. “Kardashian, mother. You know, one of the most famous women in the world? And yes, that’s the magazine Chloe is referring to. It’s an incredible opportunity for her.” He turns to me with a smile. “You didn’t tell me about this today, little bug. Congrats. Good on you. When’s it happening?”

  “I didn’t hear anything about this either.” Eric sounds miffed. “Does this mean you’re going to be working even longer hours now?”

  I take another slug of my wine.

  My father waves this unwelcome interruption off. “No, Chloe, I meant what’s happening in your personal life. When are you and this fine young man going to get married?”

  Wine sprays from my mouth like a geyser, drenching my chin, my dinner plate, and the white linen tablecloth around it in a fine drizzle of red. I start coughing, and can’t stop.

  Jamie laughs. My mother gasps, appalled. She leaps to her feet, calling for Nina to bring a wet cloth. My father simply stares at me with his bushy eyebrows halfway up his forehead, awaiting an answer.

  Eric provides him with one before I can regain my composure. Sheepishly, he says, “I’m honored to hear you say that, sir. In fact, I’m glad you brought it up. I know Chloe and I have only been dating a short while, but we have so much in common, and we get along so well, and our values are so similar . . .” He clears his throat, shifting his weight in his chair.

  I turn to him slowly, my eyes wide open. I squeeze his hand so tightly I must be cutting off the blood flow to his fingers. He smiles at me, and pats my hand. I realize he’s mistaken my blossoming horror for overwhelming emotion.

  “Well, if things keep going in the direction they’re going, sir, I think we’ll have an announcement to make quite soon. With your blessing, of course,” he hastens to add.

  My mother instantly forgets about Nina and the cloth. She clutches her pearls. Her cry of joy, though I’m not certain I’ve ever heard it before, is genuine. My father relaxes back into his chair and folds his hands over his belly, beaming like a happy Buddha. My brother slowly sets his coffee on the table, his face impassive, watching me carefully.

  As for me? I burn. I smoke. I writhe in impotent fury, gritting my teeth so hard they’re in danger of shattering.

  No one has asked my opinion on the subject of marriage to Eric, most importantly the man himself. Almost worse is the glaring reality that, except for my brother, everyone in this room is convinced I’m wasting my time on my silly little flower hobby, and I should hurry up and get down to the real work of landing myself a husband before I turn into an unmarryable spinster. And lucky me, lo and behold! A gallant suitor has just offered his hand—for my father’s approval.

  I’m living in a Jane Austen novel.

  It goes from bad to worse.

  “Oh, darling, we’re so pleased!” My mother hastens to Eric and grips his shoulder, as if he might change his mind and she’ll be forced to hold him against his chair. “You certainly had to kiss your share of frogs, Chloe, but now that you’ve found your—”

  “Prince Charming?” Jamie interrupts my mother’s gushings with a tone just as pointed as his look. Before I can banish it, the image of a Viking god flashes before my eyes, a god with piercing golden eyes and a lion’s mane of hair, thundering bare chested over a battlefield on a stallion.

  I’ve been watching way too much HBO.

  “Yes, James. Prince Charming. As I was saying, now that you’ve found him, we can put all this flower shop nonsense behind us and get on with the more important business of wedding planning!” She pulls a hankie from her sleeve and dabs at her eyes, sniffing dramatically. “Oh, this calls for a toast!”

  No, mother, this calls for a mutiny.

  I stand. I wipe the remaining wine from my chin. I place my napkin on the table. “Eric and I are not getting married.”

  The room comes to a screeching halt. Nina, who has just arrived from the kitchen with a wet towel, turns around and dodders out.

  “Babe,” says Eric, hurt.

  “Not anytime soon, anyway, Eric. There are a lot of things we need to talk about first. And a little news flash: this isn’t the nineteenth century. My father’s blessing is nice, but it isn’t necessary. I’ll marry whomever I want. Probably someone who respects me enough to consult with me and ask my feelings on the matter before he makes a dramatic announcement to my family.”

  “Now, Chloe,” my father says in his deepest, most commanding courtroom voice, “let’s not get hysterical.”

  If he thinks this is hysterical, he ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

  “We’re simply thinking of what’s best for your future—”

  “You haven’t asked what I think is best for my future—”

  “You haven’t shown great intelligence in that regard—”

  “That’s so unfair! Just because my choices aren’t what you’d make, that doesn’t mean I’m a complete idiot, or a failure for that matter—”

  “You’re upsetting your mother—”

  “We’re even, then, because she’s upsetting me!”

  “Enough!” My father pounds his fist on the table so hard all the glassware jumps, falling back with a clatter.

  Silence descends. The grandfather clock in the corner begins a doleful chime.

  It’s eight o’clock on a Sunday evening in January, and I am finally at my wit’s end.

  I look at my parents. My mother, swathed in silk and pearls, my father, lord of the manor, master of all he surveys. I know these flawed but genuinely good people love me. They have provided me with a lifetime of constant—if somewhat distant—affection, have gladly paid for my extravagant education, have done everything in their power to ensure I’ve had every advantage in life. Yet what they don’t know about
me could fill volumes.

  The terrible truth is that they don’t want to know. They want their dream of the perfect daughter, the obedient, sweet-natured girl who marries the perfect man and attends all the right parties and knows how to manage a household staff.

  I am not that girl. Or, if I was, I’m not any longer.

  Quietly, I say, “I’m twenty-five years old. I’m not your baby anymore. I’m sorry if the person I’ve become is a disappointment to you, but this is who I am. If you’re not willing to accept me this way, then I think it’s best if we don’t see each other for a while.” I pause, look at Jamie’s face, at the gleam of approval in his eye, and add, “And by the way, your son is gay. Stop being such assholes about it.”

  The following silence is so total, it’s almost deafening. Into it, James begins slowly to clap.

  I turn and leave the table, and let myself out the front door.

  Santa Monica Boulevard is surprisingly busy for a cold Sunday night. Then again, I’ve never walked down the boulevard on a cold Sunday night, so I really have nothing to compare it to.

  Eric drove us to my parents’ in Beverly Hills for dinner. Walking back to my apartment in Hollywood would take weeks. Or at least a few hours, which in walking time is the same thing. I have my handbag and cell phone, so I could call Uber, or even hail one of the taxis regularly passing by, but I need to walk for at least a little while. I need to clear my head.

  I need to calm down before I get home, where I know Eric will be waiting for me.

  My mother’s final cry of “What’s gotten into her, Thomas?” as I marched out of the house is still echoing in my brain.

  Not what, mother. Who.

  I can’t get him out of my head. This new rebelliousness, the anger, the cursing . . . it all started when my life collided with A.J. Edwards. He sent me into a tailspin I haven’t recovered from.

  I know it’s not actually his fault. He’s not standing next to me holding a gun to my head, making me act all crazy and out of character, but he might as well be. He’s infiltrated my brain like a ninja, and no matter how I try, I can’t evict him.